( no substance use shown, only dealing implied)
"You ever held a blade before?"
Raphael didn't answer. Just stared at the steel on the table, cold under the flickering light. XUX HQ #2 felt more like a forgotten warehouse than a gang hideout—walls peeling, wires hanging, and the air thick with rot and sweat.
The man across from him smiled, crooked teeth and a stitched eyebrow. No name, no rank, just one of them.
"You either use this," he tapped the blade, "or don't do this job".
"…Cool," Raphael muttered.
The man laughed. "You got bark. We'll see if you got blood."
He slid an envelope across the table. Inside: a torn map, a polaroid of a bulky dude with gold teeth, and a keycard. Scribbled in red ink:
TARGET: KROX.
LOCATION: NEON UNDERLINE.
OBJECTIVE: GET THE SILVER SUITCASE.
DON'T GET CAUGHT.
DON'T DIE.
The streets were wet. Neon signs reflected off puddles like broken glass.
Raphael walked alone. No mask. No backup. Just a knife in his hoodie and a heart punching his ribs.
He replayed the photo in his head—Krox, some underground supplier who ran fake IDs, dirty cash, and dr*gs through an abandoned club-turned-black-market in the old metro. Tough. Paranoid. Armed.
The briefing was clear: "He's bringing in a new batch tonight. We want the suitcase. You don't need to kill. Just don't f**k it up."
Raphael reached the rusted gate. Music thumped below like a migraine. A bouncer eyed him.
"Business," Raphael said, showing the keycard.
The man grunted. Let him in.
Neon Underline was a tunnel of madness.
LEDs buzzed over graffiti-tagged walls. The air reeked of sweat, metal, and smoke. People milled around shady stalls—knives, vials, forged IDs, duffel bags. No one smiled. Everyone watched.
Raphael kept his head down, scanning.
Then he saw him.
Krox.
Trench coat. Bald head. Thick gold chain. And there—the silver suitcase.
He stood near a vendor, counting bills, talking to two smaller guys who looked like rats in human form.
Raphael slipped into the shadows, heart hammering.
Okay. Just follow him. Wait. Then—
"Don't stare too long, rookie."
Raphael flinched. Turned.
A girl leaned against the wall behind him, black crop jacket, short black hair. Something about her felt close, Coldand Sharp.
"Who—?"
"I'm nobody. You're new," she said, cutting him off. "Don't fail, if you do, you know the consequences."
She flicked his hood and vanished into the crowd.
Weird.
Twenty minutes passed. Krox moved. Raphael followed, weaving between bodies and flashing lights.
Krox exited through a side door, toward the maintenance halls—narrow concrete passages barely lit, paint flaking off the pipes. Quiet here. Isolated.
Perfect.
Raphael pulled the knife from his pocket.
Sweat beaded his temple. His hand shook.
He walked faster, closing the gap.
Ten feet. Five. He raised the blade—
But Krox stopped suddenly.
"You lost, kid?"
Raphael froze.
Krox turned, eyeing him like a butcher inspecting bad meat. His left hand dropped near his jacket.
"You deaf or dumb? Why you following me?"
"Suitcase," Raphael muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"I said," Raphael lifted the blade, voice breaking, "give me the suitcase."
A long pause.
Then Krox grinned—wide and disgusting. Gold teeth flashing under the dim bulb.
"F**king rat."
He rushed him. Moved fast for a man his size. Raphael panicked, stabbed—missed. Got grabbed by the collar and slammed into the wall.
His head cracked against the brick.
Stars. Blood. Pain.
"You think I ain't dealt with rats before?" Krox growled.
Raphael struggled. Knife dropped. Krox pinned his wrist. Chokehold.
"Should break your f**kin' spine."
Then it happened.
The air changed.
Like cold wind cutting through fire. Krox hesitated. Looked behind him.
Footsteps. Soft. Measured.
A figure walked into the corridor.
Long coat. Gloves. Blade already out. No mask.
Eyes like glass.
They didn't speak.
They moved.
In one second, Krox's chain was split open, majorly severing his hand . The chain holding the suitcase snapped.
He howled in pain, stumbling.
The figure ducked, stepped forward, and drove the knife across his stomach.
No mercy.
No pause.
Just blood.
Raphael backed up, horrified. His heart thudded in his ears. Krox collapsed, gasping, trying to scream.
The stranger stood over the corpse. No reaction.
They picked up the suitcase.
Looked at Raphael.
Just one sentence, voice calm and cold:
"Clean up your mess next time."
Then they walked past him like he was nothing. Disappeared into the dark.
Silence.
The concrete floor stank of blood and cheap cologne.
Raphael stood there. Shaking. His blade still on the ground, untouched. His first mission… and he didn't even land a scratch.
The suitcase sat beside the body, still chained on one end. Blood smeared across it.
He reached out slowly.
Lifted it.
Held it tight.
Then—he ran.
Later that night, back at XUX HQ #2, Raphael dropped the suitcase on the table.
Same man as before. Stitched brow. Same dead stare.
"About time," he muttered, opening it. Checked the contents—small vials, stacks of unmarked bills, a black notebook.
"Did you get blood on this?" he asked, wiping it.
Raphael didn't speak.
"You kill him?"
"…No."
The man stared.
"Then why are you alive?"
Raphael clenched his fists. "Someone else did it. I—I was about to. They just… showed up."
A long silence.
Then laughter.
Cold. Cruel.
"You're lucky, rat. Most screw-ups don't come back."
He reached under the table and threw something at Raphael's feet.
A black cloth. A mask.
"You got one more shot to prove you're not just a scared little brother hiding in his brother's shadow. Next time—you bleed for it."
Raphael bent down, picked up the mask with shaking hands.
Outside, under the rain, he stood alone, staring at his reflection in a shattered window.
His eye was swollen. His ribs ached.
"I'm not weak," he whispered. "I'm not just Farrel's little brother."
The rain ran down his face like sweat, or maybe tears.
Somewhere in the shadows behind him, a camera clicked once.
And someone whispered:
"One mission down. Let's see how many more he survives."